


GamKri 30 Day OTP Challenge: Dysfunctional Edition

by AnonymousPumpkin



Series: GamKri OTP Challenges [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Drug use mention, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPumpkin/pseuds/AnonymousPumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antibiosis [an-tee-bahy-oh-sis] - noun, Biology:  association between organisms that is injurious to at least one of them. A series of one-shots for two people who do not quite fit together the way they wish they would.</p><p>Day Ten: I'm broken:  He ain't never had to raise a fucking baby what ain't got a working tongue or had to deal with the fucking voices like Hell itself ain't never seen or looked at himself in the mirror and known that blitzed-out motherfucker what gets his look on back in the reflection. He doesn't even fucking know what broken is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: You were right about me.

**Author's Note:**

> The Challenge I will be following for this work can be found [here](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/profile). I take no credit for its creation, only for the final four prompts.

01: Statis  


You told yourself it was the right thing to do. It _was_ the right thing to do. He was a train wreck. He was a disaster, one hit away from death, a murder waiting to happen. He was a time bomb, and you were no technician. You were completely in the right to break it off, even if your alternative was less than ideal. The problem didn't lie with _you_. There was nothing wrong with _you_. It was _his_ fault. He was the one that kept slipping up and skipping his meds and insisting that _you_ were the one that needed _him_. What was it he'd said? Ah yes...

“I lived just fine till you came along, Vantas, but you weren't a motherfucking _thing_ till I found you.”

He said you were _static_. He said you were stuck where you were, incapable of maturing or moving on or living without him. He said you didn't know what to do with yourself without him. Everyone else said you'd never smiled, never laughed, never said anything worth saying until the two of you started dating. That was wrong. That _had_ to be wrong. You'd been speaking since the day you knew how. It was just that no one had ever _listened_. You told him that once, and he laughed.

“No,” was all he'd said. “You're wrong. I'm the most worthwhile thing in your dried-up life, and you motherfucking know it.”

He was lying, of course. You could survive just fine without him. You weren't the one with a life-threatening addiction. You weren't the one with a mind like a house of mirrors. You weren't the one with a monotonous academic record and a slew of nicknames all running somewhere along the line of “pillhead.” You were the one who had graduated with honors and had never failed anything in his life and could push through his problems without the aid of prescriptions and psychiatrists and pushy, nosy so-called friends. You were the one who was educated and who had a future and who was so conscious of others you had no time to think of yourself. You were the one who was selfless and helpful and yes, a little bit cranky sometimes, but only when you didn't have your morning smoke. Nothing at all like _him_.

You glare at your ceiling. Your scowl is fierce, but the plaster refuses to budge. “You are wrong about me,” you tell it, and it refuses to answer.

The staring contest lasts...well, you're not entirely sure how long it lasts. It lasts until the misery hits you like a truck and you roll over. Lying on your left side puts you face-to-face with the empty half of your always-too-big bed, and lying on your right side has you facing the clock, which cheekily reminds you that you've been in bed for the better part of nineteen hours now. You opt for burrowing under your blankets, which is great until it gets so ridiculously hot that you get light-headed. While in your igloo of misery, you realize that you smell like a locker room, and the ensuing disgust pushes you out of bed and into the bathroom. You avoid looking at your disheveled, sallow reflection. You go through your “morning” routine like you always do. Set out your clothes, lay your (neatly folded) towel on top of them on the counter. Set out your shampoo and your conditioner. Set out your soaps and deodorants and moisturizers. Get your toothbrush ready (and ignore the second, much dingier toothbrush, never retrieved), after ensuring you still have as much toothpaste as you remember you do. It's all habit, really. You've been doing it exactly the same way for years.

The coffee pot has kept your coffee warm for you all day, and stubbornly you refuse to admit that it tastes scorched. You put three scoops of sugar in before you remember that you take your coffee black. You look in your pantry for some cereal, and you pour yourself a bowl and then discover you're out of milk. You settle for some toast, and while you're eating, you check your voice mails and your text messages and even your email.

Porrim left a message asking if you wanted to go out with her and her friends for a belated birthday thing. You send her a negative text while listening to Karkat demanding if you have his good copy of Roxanne. You actually have three voicemails from Karkat, and seven texts. They range from nonsensical to pointedly inquisitive, and you assure him that you're fine and Roxanne is probably under your couch somewhere. Meulin texted asking if you were alright, and saying that she was worried for not having heard from you in a few days. You tell her you were feeling under the weather, but it's all good. She texts back immediately, as is her way, asking if you want any medicine or soup or a surprise visit from many cats. You politely decline all of the above, but assure her you're going to visit her soon to return her book. Gamzee texted you. You stare at the icon for a full twenty minutes, and then you delete it without reading it.

You go to the store, and buy enough food for two weeks. You call into work, ensure that you're not fired for taking a sick day without calling it in, and assure them you'll come in tonight. You call Karkat when you get home to inform him you found his movie. You call your landlord to discuss the sink, for the fifth time this month. You go to work and apologize profusely for your mistake. The manager must have seen something your face, because she doesn't seem angry at you. You work an extra shift to make up for it, and get home comfortably late.

When you go to bed that night, you feel accomplished. “You're wrong,” you tell the ceiling, and the ceiling does not answer.

You get up the next morning, a little late. You spend a few minutes lounging in bed, clinging to the comfort of the blankets. Eventually, your shower calls and you are helpless against her siren song. You set out your clothes, your towels, your shampoo and conditioner. Your coffee isn't burned today, but you forget again how you take your coffee. You put three sugars in your cup and pour yourself a bowl of cereal. You check your voice mail and your text messages and your email, and respond to everyone that needs responding to. Gamzee has nothing to say today. You spend the afternoon cleaning, returning your apartment to its sterile white perfection, and then you go to work. The uniform feels stiff and uncomfortable, and you tug at your hem far too often.

You talk some with your co-workers, but they are so dull that you give up after a few dead-end conversations. You get home late again, but this time it's because you had to detour to avoid construction. A pipe burst, or something of the sort. There are no pillows on the left side of the bed. You don't feel quite as accomplished tonight, but you're getting there. You tell the ceiling, “You're wrong,” and it does not answer.

You get up. You shower. You get your coffee. You pour yourself some cereal. You check your messages. You clean. You go to work. You come home late. You go to bed. You tell the ceiling, “You're wrong.” The ceiling does not answer.

You get up. You shower. You get your coffee. You pour yourself some cereal. You check your messages. You clean. You go to work. You come home late. You go to bed. You tell the ceiling, “You're wrong.” The ceiling does not answer.

You get up. You shower. You get your coffee. You pour yourself some cereal. You check your messages. You clean. You go to work. You come home late. You go to bed. You tell the ceiling, “You're wrong.” The ceiling does not answer.

You get up. You shower. You get your coffee. You pour yourself some cereal. You check your messages. You clean. You go to work. You come home late. You go to bed. You tell the ceiling, “You're wrong.” The ceiling does not answer.

You get up...you get your coffee...you clean...you're wrong...you're wrong...you're wrong... _I can live just fine without you._

You visit Meulin on a Sunday, you think, a month or two after you said you were going to. She is delighted to see you, as she is delighted to see everyone. She doesn't hug you, and she doesn't ask you to stay for dinner. You give her her book back and stay an hour or two to talk. You say hello to Nepeta, who returns from her date looking dazed and dizzy. You take your leave when you hear her tell Meulin that Karkat was a gentleman, the best boyfriend a girl could ever ask for.  
You pay no attention to the road as you drive. You've driven this way so many times that the only reason you need to look at the road is watch for other drivers, and there aren't many this time of day. The radio provides background static for your thoughts, which revolve around the contents of the book you're reading and the contents of your freezer. There's some pie crust in there you need to throw away. You're never going to use it.

You get home pretty early, but with nothing to do, you just go to bed early. You stare at the ceiling for almost an hour straight before you finally fall asleep.

You get up. You shower. You get your coffee. You pour yourself some cereal. You check your messages. You clean. You go to work. You come home late. You go to bed. You tell the ceiling, “You're wrong.” The ceiling does not answer.

“You're like a motherfucking record,” he told you, early in your relationship. He was laughing at you, and you'd had to resist the urge to punch that smug look off his face. “Not a motherfucking skip to be found on this bitch. Smooth as a baby's ass.”

You see him a few months later. You can't get out of coming to Nepeta's birthday party, and you should have known, really, that he was going to be there. Your social circle is inconveniently small.

He looks...good. You stay by the stairs at first, watching him as nonchalantly as you can while you carry on meaningless conversation with someone you don't know. He seems to be doing the same thing; talking, that is. His hair isn't dirty or matted like it was before, and he looks like he's shaved sometimes this week. And his clothes are colorful and nice. He still has that ridiculous face paint on, but so does Kurloz. That's a losing battle no matter how you slice it.

You talk until your conversational partner gets bored and leaves. Then, someone takes pity on you standing alone and walk up to you, and you do it again.

The party is small and rotating like you do, it's only a matter of time before you find yourself face-to-face with the one person you don't want to see. He looks at you with the affection you really don't want, and none of the smug mocking you're used to. He takes a sip of his drink (apple juice). His eyes are clear and half-lidded, giving him that weird half-asleep look.

“Hello.”

His eyebrows rise. “Hey, brother.”

 _Brother._ You wonder if you should smile, but you decide against it. Instead, you say, “You look really good. Is that shirt new?”

He looks down at the shirt like it's the first time he's ever seen it, and bares his teeth in a grin. “Yeah, man. After you dumped me, I dragged my motherfucking ass to rehab and shit. Fucking crazy in there, man. Got out, found out I didn't have no goddamn _clothes_ to wear.” He says it all in his laughing, lilting way, as if he hasn't rubbed his functionality in your face. When he emphasizes 'clothes,' his voice briefly gets that gravelly, aggressive edge you found so alluring, but it's lost. “Got some of Kurloz's old crap, too, but that shit ain't agreeing with my body. All kinds of choking and squeezing.”

“Kurloz is much skinner than you,” you accede. It feels almost like a normal conversation. “So you've been...alright?” You desperately want him to say no. Since the two of you broke up, not a goddamn thing has changed in your life. You are doing exactly the same things you did before, plus a few extra cigarettes in your lunch break. You think if he hasn't done the same, you may hit him. You can't be the broken one here. You can't be the dysfunctional one in this equation.

But he nods, and you don't hit him. “Yeah. Got a job and a place and all that crap. You still clocking in that office?”

“Yes. I think I may be due for a promotion, though.” You take a sip of your juice as well, and both of you pretend you haven't been saying that for years. “I still have some of your stuff if you want to get it.”

He frowns, and then shakes his head. “Nah. Throw it out. Ain't got a need for that ratty shit.” He peers into your face, staring into your eyes as if he is looking for something. “You...you alright?”

“Of course I'm alright,” you say, and hope your voice isn't as condescending as it sounds to you.

“You still got that...routine?”

You frown. The way he says that...you remember that night when he was on the couch and he laughed at you. _A motherfucking record._ “Yes.”

You want to talk to him more, talk to him until he trips up and admits he's just as fucked up as you are, but someone calls him away and he leaves.

And when he walks away, you realize he is right. He is living without you. It's not the rehab...he's done that before. He's got a job. He's got a place to stay. He's got color in his face and in his clothes and in his voice. Nothing like when you dated him. Nothing like before you dated him either. And you...you are exactly the same. The face you see in the mirror now is the same as it was the day before you met him.

You leave immediately after Nepeta opens your present. As you drive home, you almost cry. You are so mad at him your hands shake on the wheel and your belly is burning. You don't need him to feel alive. You don't _need_ him for anything...

You lie on your bed until the moon is high and the clock is mocking you. Your glare is fierce, but the plaster above you refuses to budge.

“You were right,” you tell the ceiling. The ceiling does not answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this doesn't focus so much on the dysfunctionality of the relationship as how incapable Kankri is of functioning without Gamzee. I hope that counts as close enough.


	2. Day Two: I was wrong about you.

02: Liar

terminallyCapricious [TC] began trolling cheliformGospel [CG]  
TC: yOu kNoW  
TC: I ThOuGhT YoU WeRe dIfFeReNt  
TC: gOt mY PaN AlL ThInKiNg YoU AnD ThOsE MoThErFuCkErS WhO AiN'T NeVeR GaVe a FuCkInG CaRe iF I LiVe aNd DiE WeReN'T AlL OnE AnD ThE SaMe  
TC: ShIt iF YoU AiN'T ThE GaBbIeSt mOtHeRfUcKeR I EvEr sEt eYeS On bUt sHiT If yOu aIn'T ThE MoSt piTiFuL TrOlL EvEr hAtChEd  
TC: i ThOuGhT I'D FiNaLlY FoUnD My mOtHeRfUcKiNg sOuLmAtE  
TC: My mOtHeRfUcKiNg cOsMiC-TiEd bRoThEr  
TC: tHoUgHt i AiN'T NeVeR GoT A FeEl oN A BrOtHeR LiKe i gOt oN WiTh yOu  
TC: AlL KiNdS Of aChE AnD PaIn iN YoUr yElLiNg bUt aLl kInDs oF LoVe aNd sHiT ToO  
TC: lIkE StArDuSt aNd cOtToNcAnDy fAyGo aNd cOlOrS LiKe cAn't bE ImAgInEd  
TC: I AiN'T NeVeR LoVeD A MoThErFuCkEr lIkE I LoVe yOu  
TC: aNd i gOt mY ThInK On yOu wAs tHe sAmE  
TC: LeT It tRiCkLe iN My bRaIn yOu gOt tHe lOvE In yOu tOo  
TC: aNd sHiT If yOu dIdN'T LeT ThAt fAlSeHoOd eat at mE  
TC: AlWaYs sAyInG shit lIke i lOve yOu aNd i pItY YoU  
TC:  
TC:  
TC:  
TC: i tHoUgHt yOu mOtHeRfUcKiNg lOvEd mE  
TC: I ThOuGhT YoU WeReN'T OnE To lEt tHaT FaKe sHiT SpEw  
TC: bUt yOu kNoW MoThErFuCkInG WhAt  
TC: i was wrong about you


	3. Day Three: This cancels out the hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight mention of suicidal thoughts in this chapter. Just warning.

03: Vicious Cycle

You both have different ways you deal with the hurt. You're supposed to deal with it by helping each other, but it's never quite worked that way. When you admit your faults and stresses to him, you have a habit of rambling and he stops listening. He doesn't even bother coming to you with his problems anymore. The first two time you lectured him he learned his lesson and kept his mouth shut. So instead of going to each other, you both fall back on vices you'd sworn off. The funny thing is, you end up finding each other at the bottom of the barrel and you find yourselves tangled together again, tears flowing and blood pumping and minds clinging stubbornly to the belief that surely this is going to work.

Everyone can see that you're falling apart at the seams, but you both refuse to let go.

You have a terrible habit of hurting your moirail. It's not always intentional, but the worst part is that sometimes it is. You have a way with words; you always have. Most people get the academic side of that, having to sit down and endure a storm of words they don't understand put together in sentences that subtly offend. He, however...he gets the worst of it. He is the closest thing you have to a true friend, and he's so much more than just a friend. He has seen you bare and bloody, soft and sobbing, and he has also borne the brunt of your best kept secret: deep down, you, Kankri Vantas, are kind of an asshole. You have a way with words, and he recieves them so easily, taking every blow without so much as a struggle and letting you beat down on him, perhaps because he knows that's the closest thing you have to an outlet. He'll start out screaming back, trying to disrupt your calm, steady facade, but he'll end up silent, complacent as you throw verbal knives into his back. You sometimes try to kid yourself into thinking he's not listening, but you know that he is, and deep down, you're glad he does. That means that even though you're hurting him, even though you've done everything you're capable of doing to make him hate you, he still chooses to stay with you, to wrap himself around you in the morning and whisper pale nothings in your ear as if either of you mean them anymore.

He'll find you at the top of something tall after a fight like that. You toy with the idea of jumping, but you never bring yourself to do it. You just stand and make yourself sick with the sight of the height. He'll always put a hand on your back and push lightly, and then he'll laugh when you flail and yell at him. You never have the energy to really fight him, not again, so you sit back and let him exact his revenge on you. You let your hurt out on him, after all. It's only fair.

Gamzee's outlet is not verbal. It's physical. He likes to hold you down, to tie you up, to pin you against the wall and make sure you realize beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could hurt you just as easily as you hurt him. And he will. He'll bite and scratch and sometimes you'll fuck him, wondering in the back of your mind is moirails work like this. Maybe not for everybody, but for you. Because even if it's painful for the both of you, you walk away feeling better.

He never says that he pities you, or that he's pale for you, or that he loves you. If not for the little symbols he leaves at the end of his messages, you might not even know what quadrant the two of you were in. That hurts more than the scratches, the bite marks, even more than the look in his eyes when you tell him he is beyond forgiveness or redemption. You know it doesn't hurt more than what you say, but it's as close as he's ever going to come.

You sleep in separate 'coons, except when you have a fight. Your 'coon is bigger, barely, and you'll slide into the slime, hissing at how it makes your injuries tingle and sting. The first few times, it was a surprise, but after a while, you got to anticipate it, and your heart would start to pound. He wouldn't come if he thought you were awake, so you'd close your eyes and stay perfectly still for as long as you could. You would be just at the breaking point when you'd hear it: the soft _wpssh_ of clothes hitting the floor, the gross slap of a body hitting the surface of the sopor slime, the relieved sigh of an exhausted troll finding respite at last.

Then he'll wrap his arms around you. At that point, you'll give up pretending and you'll open your eyes and look at him. Red eyes will meet purple, and you'll find such tenderness in those depths that you will allow yourself to forget what you said and what he did. You'll kiss him, soft and tired, and you'll fall asleep to his voice in your ear. His voice is low and gravelly and raspy, and by all means it should make you uncomfortable or annoy you, but by now it just creates a heat in your middle that you can't define. He'll whisper the sweetest things to you, a pale lullaby, and though he never says the words you crave to hear, he says everything besides, and you fall in love with him again before falling asleep. The embrace you share, the kisses you give him, and the love he gives in return...it's enough to cancel out the hurt, for one night, until you do it all over again.


	4. Day Four: I need to want you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains obsession (not too bad, really, I had to write it quickly), and dubious consent.
> 
> I listened to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNcvEsfAJhk) on repeat while I was writing this chapter.

04: Heartbeat

Kankri tapped his knee impatiently and looked down the path. There was no one coming down, just as there hadn't been two minutes ago when he looked ago, and just as there likely would not be when he looked again in another two minutes. He had no idea how long it'd been since anyone had come up this way. Since _he'd_ come up this way.

He couldn't stop the frown coming to his face, couldn't help the way his foot tapped impatiently on the step. He couldn't decide if he felt scared that he was never coming or angry that he was late (well...“late”...they had never set times for their meetings; as with everything else in the bubbles, it happened when it happened, usually when you wanted it least).

The thing was, Kankri looked _forward_ to seeing Gamzee. He could not pinpoint the exact moment it'd begun. It certainly hadn't started out that way. The first time he'd seen him, he'd felt the excitement of a new face and eagerly sought him out. A few minutes of conversation was enough to completely kill that sentiment, and he'd avoided him after that until he could avoid him no longer. He had an obnoxious way of finding Kankri when he was alone, even if it was to do nothing more than stand and watch from the shadows with that almost lecherous grin on his face. Gamzee was vulgar and crude and just plain _scary_. There was an air of wildness about him that was quite unlike Kankri's Makara. Kurloz was more the quiet creepy type, the kind you didn't want to give any power but also were pretty safe walking home alone with. Gamzee was like an animal who could wild at any moment, or so Kankri originally thought. But then they'd ended up struck together one time too many, and his mind began to change.

There weren't many places to run in the bubbles because of the unpredictability of how they smooshed together. Kankri as a rule did not stray from his bubble; instead, he let others abscond themselves, and if they got lost, he helpfully showed them the way out. Gamzee had wandered in far too often for it to be an accident, so Kankri had stopped showing him the exit and started talking to him instead. And he found...he rather liked it.

Not that Gamzee was really good conversation. He was terrible. But he buzzed with energy like Kankri had never known before. He showed emotion easily and freely, and when he was in a good mood, he was one of the happiest trolls Kankri could see. Sometimes Kankri would sit and close his eyes and let himself get lost in the ups and downs of Gamzee's voice, or the catches in his breath, or just the sounds of his clothes and the grass and the ground as he fidgeted about. Gamzee could not sit still; even when he zoned out, he was tapping a rhythm or moving a foot restlessly. It was fascinating. In spite of that, he walked slowly, with a loping, sliding gait that annoyed Kankri to no end.

Actually...he could hear it now...

Kankri felt half-wild as he threw himself down the stairs to stand at the path. He almost gave himself whiplash looking back and forth, which he continued doing even after he saw the slouched figure lurching his way. He found himself smiling in a fashion he had not since he was young and he actually raised his hand to wave, desperate for the other troll's attention.

“Gamzee!”

Gamzee flinched at the sound of his own name, but he smiled when he saw who called him. He raised one hand in greeting and continued on as if he hadn't been planning to see Kankri the whole time. Kankri did not go out to him; he did not trust his legs to take him that far. He kept a hand on the rail at the bottom of the stairs, gripping it so tightly that it began to warp in his palm. He wanted to go to Gamzee, to meet him before he reached the stairs, but he could not get his legs to move. His grin was so wide that it felt unnatural, but Gamzee returned it with equal fervor. He put his hands on the rail, and Kankri was almost singularly aware of where Gamzee's long, crooked fingers touched and laid over his own. Gamzee was in a cool caste, but his skin felt warm and thrumming to Kankri. He resisted the urge to push his fingers in between those twitching, living ones, and instead invited Gamzee up the stairs.

“Come up,” he suggested. He had intended to gesture behind him, but he could not bring himself to tear his eyes away from Gamzee's. “I've been waiting for you. How have you been since you've come last? How much time has passed?”

Since Kankri made no move to go up the stairs, Gamzee made no move to follow him. He stared at him with a thoughtful, almost paranoid look in his eyes, which contradicted the grin on his face in the most delightfully troll-ish way. “Been all right. Motherfucking boring in the vents. Not a motherfucking friendly face to be seen, apart from the shouty fuck what got it in his head to avoid me. Ain't shit to do besides catch them miraculous motherfucking z motherfuckers all the time. Can't get a proper grab on what time's passing when you ain't in the world where time means shit.”

Kankri frowned at the off-hand mention to Karkat, smiled at Gamzee's admission to constant naps, but again fell into dissatisfaction at Gamzee's dismissal of how much time had passed. He felt something burning in his chest, something that was almost anger and almost disappointment.

“How many sleep cycles have you had since we last spoke?” he pressed gently, and Gamzee's eyes clouded briefly as he tried to recall.

He gave up very quickly, with an uncaring shrug. He made absolutely no indication that he cared how Kankri was doing, but Kankri wasn't offended in the slightest. Quite frankly, _Kankri_ didn't care how Kankri was doing.

“Well. No harm done, I suppose. Come up, come up.” He finally managed to tear his fingers away from Gamzee's, and immediately he missed the contact. It occupied his thoughts as he half-ran up the stairs. The ridges of Gamzee's skin were a contrast to his own paler, smoother skin, which he was convinced had somehow gotten hazier the longer he'd been dead. He got a tiny thrill just thinking about it. It was so... _beautiful_. He almost turned around and grabbed his fingers again just to feel it again, but he kept himself under control until they reached the top of the stairs.

Gamzee had never shown interest in entering his hive, so Kankri sat down with his back to the door and waited for Gamzee to do the same. Gamzee always sat close to him, but not quite close enough to touch. Kankri could barely feel the warmth of his body, could hear faintly the sounds of his breath moving in and out of his ethereal, but living, body. It was intoxicating to be so very close and be unable to take what he so desperately wanted. All thought fled his mind to make room for Gamzee and his bright, violet-tinted eyes, and his chapped, expressive lips, and his twitching, cool-but-still-warm hands.

Kankri closed his own, pure white eyes and licked his own faded lips and wrapped his carefully controlled, perfectly still hands.

They sat like that for what must have been a very long time. Kankri ordinarily did not have to care very much about the passing of time, but he was aware of the space between Gamzee's every breath and blink, and he came to realize that the amount of time between each must have been finite and identical. He craved to know how long it was, but...alas, he was not the Time player, and these thoughts would only ever be frustrated musing to him.

“Why are you doing this?”

Kankri should have been startled by Gamzee's voice cutting into the silence, but he wasn't. He just turned to look at Gamzee, hoping he looked nonchalant. His fingers tightened around each other and he pressed his entwined fists against his stomach. The wool scratched uncomfortably at his skin.

“I...what are you referring to? Why am I sitting here? Why am I in this bubble? Why am I alone all the time? You must be more specific, Gamzee, you cannot expect me to just read--”

“Why is your sententious motherfucking ass sitting by my blaspheming motherfucking ass like we was born two peas in motherfucking _pod_?” Gamzee interrupted him, his voice almost a hoarse scream, but halfway through his question, his voice abruptly dropped to a whisper that seemed to shake as it trailed off. His eyes gleamed with emotions neither of them could name, and he bared his teeth in a challenging snarl.

It was such a dynamic and emotional shift that Kankri's mind went blank. He could not think of a word of reply, not even one. His lips slid down as if pulled by a string. _Because I care about you_ , he wanted to say, but he didn't want to _lie_ to him. If he lied, he would leave. _Because I am addicted to you_ , he wanted to say, but he didn't want to be so truthful. If he was honest...if he was honest, he would be disgusted with him.

So Kankri said nothing. He turned a little bit and stared at Gamzee's increasingly aggressive expression, his stiffening body, his clenched fists. Then he leaned forward and trapped Gamzee the only way he could think of.

Gamzee's lips were more dry than they looked. And they were _warm_. If he pressed hard enough, Kankri imagined he would be able to feel his heart pounding in his mouth. He didn't have the chance. Not right away. Gamzee let out a noise that Kankri felt in the pit of what was once his digestive tract, and Kankri found himself flat on his rump, the highblood's hands frozen on his shoulder where he had shoved him. His snarl was cut off. Gamzee may fancy himself stronger than Kankri, and he very well could be, but Kankri was bigger and older and had sweeps and then eternities that he did not, and it was not hard at all for Kankri to overpower him.

He didn't hold him down, exactly. He just...he needed to _show_ him. He kissed Gamzee's face, his soft, expressive, handsome face, until his eyes were clouded with lust instead of rage. He was so young, so desperate, so unloved and so lonely, that it did not take long at all. Kankri knew what it felt like. He knew what it was like to feel as if the world was against you, as if everyone wanted nothing more than to watch you suffer, as if nothing you ever did was worthy. He knew what it was like to feel like you were more dead than alive.

But the truth was, Gamzee was not more dead than alive. Gamzee was _alive_. His heart was beating and his lungs were inhaling and he did not have to will his body into responding the way it was supposed to. It just happened _naturally_. He was so alive and so so beautiful.

Kankri could feel his bloodpusher beating when he wrapped his lips around his throat. It fluttered every time he dug his fingernails into the warm flesh of his thigh. It pounded every time he ground his hips against his already thrashing bulge. It sang of a life that Kankri did not know, would never know again, and he was intoxicated by how it tasted against his tongue. His fingers dug into Gamzee's wrists, holding them above his head to encourage his legs to open. His blood pounded in his veins and Kankri longed so desperately to felt as he felt.

He pressed his body as close to Gamzee's as was possible. He held him until he could feel the very _atoms_ of Gamzee's being pressed against his own. He willed his body to react like it was supposed to, trying not to be angry at Gamzee for being able to be so easily and naturally aroused. It was not his fault, after all.

Gamzee's voice betrayed every emotion and Kankri endeavored from then on to make him scream his every thought. He took his bulge in his mouth to taste the living essence of Gamzee's body, and he took him in his nook to get as close as he possibly could to feel that life inside him. Gamzee scratched and gasped and moaned like Kankri never could, though he closed his eyes more than Kankri wanted him to. He got in the habit of holding Gamzee by the hair and forcing him to look him in the face while Kankri took him. He had been afraid at first that Gamzee would reject him for that, would push him away and leave him forever, but it only turned him on.

Sometimes Gamzee tried to return the favor, sucking Kankri off and riding his bulge and sucking at his horns like they were candy with a sweeter core. Kankri loved it, loved how hot it made him feel, adored how good and warm and wet Gamzee was, but they always ended up in the same position with Kankri whispered no, no, no, no, this is not about you. I don't want to feel good. I don't need to feel good. I want _you_ to feel good. I _need_ you to feel good. And he did. He needed Gamzee's pleasure more than he needed anything else in the world. Gamzee's breath was his breath, Gamzee's blood was his blood, Gamzee's orgasm was Kankri's spark of life.

Sometimes Kankri couldn't even bring himself to fuck him. He just scratched at his back and held him against him so tightly that he imagined that Gamzee's beating heart and his long-dead one were pushed together. Maybe he hoped Gamzee's life was contagious. Maybe he thought these trysts would make him feel more alive. Or maybe he was just addicted to Gamzee's heartbeat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably among my favorite things I've written for this.


	5. Day Five: You can be like me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains blood, death, and implied kidnapping.

05: A Drop of Blood Makes The Humanity Go Down

 “Go on,” you urge, grinning in spite of yourself. He doesn't. He just grits his teeth and stares hard at the girl, the girl you went through _a lot of motherfucking trouble to obtain_ , and he does nothing. You cross your arms over your chest and lean back. You like to imagine you're patient, but even _you_ know you're nothing like your own maker. That motherfucker could stand for _weeks_ just staring at you until you broke up inside and gave in to whatever fucked up desire he had for you. You, on the other hand...

“Well?

He flinches, and turns to narrow too-bright crimson eyes in your direction. You quickly wipe a smile onto your face, as if his defiance is nothing more than a game to you. And, in the long run, you suppose it is. He _will_ give in eventually, and it will be the most beautiful thing he's ever done. He may even thank you for it, later. But, of course, in order to get to all that, _he has to motherfucking do what's been motherfucking ordered at him_.

“She is...remniscent of...someone I...knew once.” He says it casually, or tries to. His voice is too tight, his frown too rigid. He is trying to play it cool for you, which would be adorable if you had all the fucking time in the world. “I find that rather trig...it makes me uncomfortable.”

“No shit she is.” You look at her. She does look a bit like that girl you saw him with before you caught him, which of course is exactly why you took her forth him. What kind of fucked up father would you be if you didn't make him confront his fears. And nothing got you over a bitch like sinking your fangs so deep in her you tasted bone.

He, apparently, doesn't see it that way. He looks kind of like a child, stiff and reluctant, and he kinds sounds like one too.

The woman, the woman _you chose_ , just ain't appreciative of what she's gonna be witnessing her. It's gonna be fucking miracles all night long. You know he's too fresh to be able to stand just one kill. You been that young before, you remember. You ain't sure at all how he's managed to hold out this long, quite frankly. You are sure, though, that he ain't gonna hold out much longer.

“We ain't got all motherfucking night, Vantas,” you point out, reaching up to pick at your fangs with a claw. “Her squawking's sure to attract some mighty motherfucking strong lawmen.” He still doesn't move, but he looks away from you. He looks as if he's going to be sick, but of course he can't be. Vampires don't get _sick_ , _especially_ not at the sight of fresh meat. “You ain't even gotta neck her,” you accede. “Take her leg, her arm, whatever the fuck tickles your fancy.”

He takes a deep breath, as if he really needs to, and takes a step towards her. She flinches away from him, trying desperately to escape, but she really has nowhere to go. She's back into a corner, and both of you are between her and the only way out. The gag on her mouth will probably slip soon, and you start to wonder if maybe you shouldn't have done that. Gave you a bit more time to coerce him, but maybe he wouldn't need as much _goddamn coercing to do what should be his up and born desire_ if he'd been allowed to hear his prey squeal a little bit.

It was always the best. When they screamed.

You start to tap your leg, far from pleased. This had started out cute, but now it was just getting obnoxious. He's been kinda charming at first in his bumbling innocence, but if he kept up this stupid shit till the hunters showed up, the two of you were as good as fucked. Well, he was. You were too motherfucking good for those stuck-up pieces of garbage what called themselves _hunters_ these days. In any case, you weren't too keen to lose your firstborn on account of his being a _motherfucking pansy_.

“Vantas, bite her. You ain't got much time left.” You tap your wrist and grin at him, but he just glares at you. The smile falls off. “What? _What_? Just fucking do it. You asked for this. You asked _me_ to bestow on you my most wicked motherfucking gift and you ain't even got the stones to motherfucking _do_ it? Just fucking _kill_ her, Vantas, like the filthy daywalker she is. Kill her and eat like is your motherfucking _right_.”

What he does next will probably stay with you till the end of your days. Kankri, the pathetic, sniveling, self-important little shit, straightens up to his full, unimpressive height, stares you right in your hellish, dark-as-night eyes, and says, “No.”

No.

No _._

Mother.

 _Fucking_.

_**No** _ _._

He flinches when you push yourself off the wall, but you don't move towards him. Instead, you reach and grab the woman. She shrieks loud and terrified, and Kankri takes a half-step towards her. You hope it's in hunger, and not in some foolish notion of heroism or some other blasphemous shit. You lift her up by her neck (so thick and pulsing with shit you know is gonna be sweet as motherfucking candy), and without so much as a _second_ of hesitation, you bring that wicked shit right up to your fucking maw.

It's like ripping paper. Her skin is soft and ain't got shit against chompers what been tearing at flesh like hers for centuries now. Her shriek dies and you suck it up. Blood runs like miracles down you, getting in every little crack in your skin and soaking up in your clothes. It smells like a motherfucking dream, but you ain't down with lapping that shit up today. You ain't got the need in you tonight, not like your poor foolish firstborn got. You don't drink too much; you ate before this, hoping that Kankri would have this _glorious motherfucking moment_ to himself.

When you drop her, lifeless and twitching, to the ground, Kankri is silent. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open in a horrified _o_. Her blood is soaking his shoes and the cuffs of his pants, and it's all over his face when you grab him and kiss him so rough he ain't got time to think.

You ain't kissed this motherfucker since you made him, and you certainly ain't fucked him since then, but that ain't what's on your mind right now. You got a _mission_ right now.

It doesn't take long. Kankri can't resist your kiss, not like he could if he wanted to, and the second his mouth opens for you, it's full of the blood he wasn't brave enough to get himself.

He gags and pushes you away, and tries not to swallow any...but nature is so much stronger than that. A single drop, that's all he needs, and you made certain he got more than that. You'd have made certain he got more if you had to shove your bloodied fingers down his throat. Luckily, it ain't coming down to that shit, 'cause you're not down with hurting your precious little motherfucker like that. Got an affection in you like nothing you ever got before, and nothing fans that fire more than when you see him look up at you, all bloody-faced and willing, eyes shining with that hunger you been trying to get all out for months now. He looks scared still, but that ain't a motherfucking problem now. Nature is stronger.

You grin and grab him. You pull him roughly to his feet. “Welcome to the motherfucking club, Vantas,” you say, and you don't have to drag him to his first victim. Or his second. Or his third. Or his fourth. Little motherfucker got up in his importance and his _humanity_ , but all it took was one motherfucking drop blood before he realized what he really was. What you _made_ him.

It was all motherfucking miracles from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampires. Fuck yes.
> 
> Also. Would you believe I wrote this chapter _and_ the previous one _and_ the last chapter of the vanilla edition in about two hours. Because I did.
> 
> I have serious procrastination issues.


	6. Day Six: I want to need you.

06: Fake It Till You Make IT

 “Pale for you,” he whispers into your collar, and you can feel his smile against your skin. You grab his hand, and lift your other hand to finger through his hair. His hiccuping sobs cease, and you stroke his back as soothingly as you can. You force a purr. He joins you, a softer sound, and you close your eyes and lose yourself in the miraculous symphony the two of you create together. Your fingers are tangled with his, and you stroke the back of his palm softly. Your breaths synchronize, and your eyes slide half-closed. You press a kiss against the top of his head, and he hums, drowsy and contented.

He falls asleep quickly. You let him rest against you for a few moments, willing yourself to feel the pacification you know he feels. You remember what it's like to be pacified, and you reach back in yourself and pull that up again, that contentment that went beyond your self and got itself deep in your soul. You know you should be content to let him lie on top of you and sleep, but after just a few minutes, you get restless and he gets heavy and you start to fidget.

Lucky for you you got real good at getting out of sticky situations, and gentle as you can you slip out from under him and abscond quick as you can. There's probably some shit you gotta take care of at some point, and you figure what better time to do it than right fucking now.

“Hello.”

You almost shit a brick, and your fist's already half flew when you realize it's just one of Kankri's friends. The Maryam one. You never knew her name, but you knew they had a thing like you'd seen your other friends have. Almost pale, but not pale enough on one end. You knew that. You know that.

You stick your hands in your pockets and then draw them out again. You're hyperaware all of a sudden of the blush on your cheeks and the way your heart is pounding from being so close to Kankri. You had intended to go off to do your own thing, but now that she's watching you can't bring yourself to step off the final step.

“Hey, uhh...” You frown, unsure how to greet her. You've never spoken before, except a few lines exchanged when Kankri asked you to accompany him to the Sgrub anniversary parties his companions were prone to throw.

Her lips thin and her eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Porrim,” she says, and it sounds like a weapon. “I'm Kankri's...” She trails off, and you see the strong facade she'd put on for this encounter crack at the corner.

“Me too,” you helpfully provide. “He's getting his snooze on inside.” You point over your shoulder and lean against the rail of the staircase leading to his hive as if you had never had plans to go any farther. “What brings you to our motherfucking neck of the woods?” It's a struggle to keep your voice level, even around Kankri. You had gotten used to whispering and shouting like a real capricious-headed motherfucker, and having conversations with normal-type folk still ain't your strong suit.

“I was coming to check on the two of you, actually,” she says, reaching up to pick at the ring she's got in her lip with a painted nail. “Kankri's been awful quiet lately, and we wanted to make sure everything was alright.” She doesn't specify who “we” is, but you find yourself willing to bet real troll money that “we” is just “her.” No one else really seems to give a fuck about Kankri and the shit he does, which you kinda get. He's a pretty perfect motherfucker, but he ain't got much going for him in the ways of charm or social skill. Not that you got any room for talking shit.

“Yeah, he's got...problems going on,” you manage to say, not sure how much of it you can really talk about. Your first moiraillegiance went down the shitter real quick, and this one doesn't look like it's starting off that great either, due to one obvious and pretty fatal flaw. You never learned the proper etiquette when it came to moirails and privacy.

“Problems,” she repeats, in a tone that suggests she doesn't believe a word coming out of your blaspheming mouth. She doesn't press, though. “Well, then I suppose the two of you are doing very well then.”

“I suppose so.”

She stops picking at her lip and just looks at you. It feels like she is staring straight through you, and you start to fidget and squirm.

“You spend a lot of time with Kankri these days,” she comments. She steps closer to you, either oblivious or ignoring how uncomfortable that makes you feel.

“Well we are all kinds of tied up in the pale side of the quadrant board,” you point out. It makes sense that you'd spend a lot of time with him. He was your moirail, and also probably your only real friend at the moment.

A strange look comes over Porrim's face, and a stab of panic hits you square in the chest. “Kankri and I almost had a pale thing going, you know,” she says, and you hear a sad note in her voice. She cares for him. A lot. “It was a few sweeps back.” She tries to sound flippant about it, but she is watching your face intently. “He was too dense to realize, but that present was kind of...a proposal, if you will. I didn't think he would be so thick he wouldn't realize.”

You sigh and nod, and allow yourself to think the two of you may be having a bond moment over a mutual pale crush. “Yeah, he's...it took me a long time to get in his motherfucking head.” _And when I did, it wasn't..._ You frown as your thoughts take a negative turn, away from your fantasy and towards the truth.

Porrim does not talk for a very long time. She looks at you, so intently you feel as if your very soul is on display, and her lips pull down into a thoughtful frown. “You really do love Kankri, don't you?”

Your answer is without hesitation. You nod and find a small smile on your face before you can help it. “Of course I do. Motherfucker's more of a miracle than any other troll in all the motherfucking universes I've seen. Ain't all can hide so perfect behind a face like his.” You, as always, fail to put into words how perfect you think Kankri is, but you've never needed to until now. He took your pale nothings at face value and never once doubted you. You constantly thanked the makers for that. He knew you loved him, and that was what mattered.

Porrim's voice comes without warning, and there is a hint of scorn in her voice that you focus on at first, so much so that it takes a minute for her words to register with you.

“You're not pale for him, are you.”

It's not even a question. She looks at you, she who _does_ feel pale for the motherfucker who makes your chest a reclining device on a regular basis, and she sees right through you. You look her in the eye for all of a second, and then you turn your head away. You can't stand to look at her, to see the... _hurt_ there. You've taken something she wants, and you don't even want it the way she does.

“...no.” You say it so low you can't even hear it yourself, but she has her answer already. You stare at your feet, pinched into too-small shoes you wear before you know it makes his bloodpusher pump harder. You want to cry, but you don't think she'd hold you if you did, and that's all you want, isn't it? To be held. To be loved. To be cherished and protected. “But...I gotta...have him.” You say it loud at first, but you trail off into silence as you realize who you're talking to. “I need...I wish I...”

It hadn't meant to be this way. You'd gotten close to him because he hadn't looked at you with disgust...or rather, no more disgust than he looked at anyone else. Equality. That was all you could've hoped for at that point. No one spoke to you, no one trusted you, and you could only pretend that didn't bother you for so long. The two of you had kicked the breeze and flapped gums together for almost a sweep before he leaned in to you the way you'd craved and laid his soothing hand on your brow and calmed that rage in you like you'd only been calmed once before.

In the moment, it'd been perfect. You'd felt something in you that might have been pale, and it was all you wanted, so you leaned back and gave yourself to him the way he asked you to. It wasn't for another few perigrees that you realized something was wrong. You needed a moirail, yes, and you loved Kankri fiercely, yes, but...you were not pale for him. You were not red for him. Your feelings for him did not lean in any particular direction at all. They just _were_. But he was pale for _you_ , and you couldn't imagine leaving him or him leaving you, so you made pretend.

And Porrim was right. He was kind of dense. As far as you could tell, he didn't realize. He still kissed you and held you and soothed you and held you when you cried just as you did for him. And if he noticed that your actions were a bit colder, more awkward, more robotic than his, he assumed it was a product of your circumstance. You'd been hurt before, he reasoned. Of course you would be a little bit withholding. It didn't help, he was assured, that he was so similar to your last moirail.

Porrim sees all this in your eyes, or so you believe. You don't remember looking up at her, but now you can't look away. She opens her mouth to say something, but you cut her off desperately.

“Don't tell him,” you blurt. The words come out in a rush and they are far louder and more pleading than you intended. Unconsciously you look over your shoulder back at your fake-rail. You look back at Porrim and speak in a whisper, so low she leans in to listen. You smell her perfume, sharp and floral. “Don't...please...I'll try to be a good moirail for him, I will. I want...” You don't know how to say it. Your throat closes up and your eyes start burning. You want so desperately to want you the way he wants you, but you can't...you're trying so hard. “I _need_ him.”

Her look of disgust is one you've seen many times, but you are not as cold to it as you are normally. She has the power to hurt you, to take the one you love. “No you don't,” she accuses, but she is wrong. You do need him. You just don't... _need_ him the way he needs you. “But...you're making him happy. I came to make sure you were making him happy.”

You think you can feel your heart breaking. You nod numbly. “I...”

The conversation is ended abruptly when you hear a door opening and you freeze, your breath slamming out of your chest.

“Porrim...? Are you soliciting my moirail? I was unaware pickings had grown so slim.”

You ignore the subtle insult, quite used to them by now. You look up and Porrim and see that she has plastered a smile nearly identical to your own innocent, affectionate expression. You both turn on a dime and greet your mutual love.

“Not at all.” She crosses her arms over her chest and steps in front of you, ascending the steps even as she sees it makes him uncomfortable. You can't hear it or see it, but you know the hurt she feels looking in the face of her pale beloved and not seeing the same feelings within. “I just came to visit. I told you I was going to. Don't you check your messages? You still have _other_ friends, you know.”

Kankri frowns and steps away from her. You quickly ascend the steps, two at a time, to get to his side.

“I haven't neglected you, Porrim. I've been busy.” He reaches for your hand, and you don't mind being thrown under the bus.

She looks between the two of you and her smile twitches into something sadder. “I see. Well...does that mean I can't come in for some grubloaf?”

Kankri sighs and looks at you as if for permission. You, as always, are struck almost speechless just looking into his face and nod ever so slightly, as if this is a decision you deserve to make. He sighs again and looks back to her, not quite smiling. “Very well. Come on in...but _don't_ touch anything. I think we have some grubloaf left over from last night...and if not, I can make more.”

He goes in, still talking, oblivious for the moment that neither of you are following him. You both hesitate on the threshold, you and Porrim both, struck and stuck by the asshole that's got you both wrapped around his finger without a care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is a bit rushed, because I got Mass Effect in the mail and I want to play it.
> 
> Also, if you cared to know, in this timeline, Gamzee ends up cheating on Kankri with Porrim for sweeps and he doesn't notice. ｡◕‿◕｡


	7. Day Seven: Prove it.

07: Challenge

 “Prove it,” you found yourself saying, again and again and again. He always obeyed whatever task you set before him without question, and you grew confident...but then the voices began to nag at you again and you began to wonder _what if he wouldn't do it again_ and you say it again. And again. And again.

Every time he tells you he's pale for you, you whisper back, “Prove it.”

The first time he just kissed you until you were dizzy. He held you until you felt like you were going to float away on a cloud of bliss. He stroked your hair and caressed your face and held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the universe. The second time, he went out and bought you something, something small and seemingly insignificant, but it was so precious that it made you cry.

You've done it too many times to list now, and few instances stand out at all anymore. Every time you say it, you grow more desperate. You allow him to sleep with you, but then you force him to sleep without you. You insist money is no issue, but only accept the most expensive and personalized of gifts.

Soon you can't stand the soft way he kisses you. You kiss him harder, you dig your nails into his arms, and you make him bleed just to make sure that he'll stay with you anyway. He always proves you wrong. His kisses never go pitch, he never retaliates when you hurt him, and he's never abandoned you. You even ask his friends sometimes, if he ever talks about leaving you. That was the first time he really got mad at you, when he caught you with Nitram. He _yelled_ at you, demanded if you really trusted him so little. You said of course you didn't, and when he told you he really did love you, that you were the most important thing that'd ever happened to him, you told him to prove it.

From that moment on, it was no longer a plea. It was a challenge. A challenge he was all too happy to rise to. 


	8. Day Eight: I'm cruel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna throw this out right now.
> 
> I am not fond of what I wrote for this prompt. I like the idea, but execution is 0/10.

08: The Name Game

 You had not forgotten what he'd said earlier. He'd papped you afterwards, had apologized in that nonsensical way of his, and now he held you in the tender, hesitant way he did, but every time you closed your eyes and laid your head against his chest, you heard his voice and you felt the stab deep in your gut. It had hurt in the moment, but now all you felt was the anger that followed the hurt. Your hands clenched tightly into fists, so tightly that your claws dug into your palms. You were careful not to draw your own blood, lest you draw his attention to your distress. It was his job, but you had no desire to be pacified right now. Not by him, anyways.

His hand in your hair is a point of tension for you and you want to swat it away. But...you don't. You allow yourself to soothed and petted until you are half-asleep.

An idea strikes you as you drift off, cruel and quiet. You are quite good at ignoring these urges normally, but the hurt is still raw in you, and so when he leans into whisper his good day's to you and tell you that he loves you, you turn your head, eyes half-closed and whisper, “Pale for you...Karkat.”


	9. Day Nine: Always wondered what this'd be like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter include slavery, dubcon, Kankri being a bit of a hypocritical ass, and, like most of these, non-explicit sexual content.

09\. Desirable

 You'd always thought yourself above this kind of...class warfare, this kind of wanton oppression, but as soon as you'd set eyes on Gamzee Makara, you knew you wanted him.

He was trailing after his master, head down at first, but as soon as they stopped moving, he raised his head ever so slightly so he could look around. His eyes were such a deep purple they almost looked blue, until he faced the sun. He was so beautiful that everything else around him was pale and drained of color just by his presence. His face was the like of which you rarely saw, angular and regal in the manner his caste boasted of but rarely ever produced. His horns were perfect, if a bit scuffed, and his body, though far too skinny and slumped, was built to be admired, not to work.

It was little trouble procuring him from his previous master, who looked as if he had been far too cruel to such a beautiful thing, but it was more trouble than that to bring yourself to face him. You could barely stand to be so close to him while you took him home. You told him your name and you asked his. This surprised him, and endeared you to him.

You'd made sure he was healed and fed and clothed and taken care of, and you watched his progress from afar. He got along well with the other slaves; he talked with them and played with the younger ones and often you would not go into your gardens because he was there, working or playing, and the air was full of his laughter. You pretended you were too busy to deal with him right away, but in truth you did not want to approach him too soon. You needed to be very smart about this. You had no desire to _rape_ him, not at all. You were not that cruel or depraved, and you thought far too highly of him. You wanted him to want you as badly as you wanted him. Maybe you even wanted him to need you.

You try to memorize his comings and goings, but he is surprisingly unpredictable, and you end up just wandering the halls in the hopes that you will meet him. Several times you do, and you manage to coax him into true conversation. You tell him he may call you by your first name, if he desires to, but he refuses when he learns not all slaves are given the privilege.

When you finally come to him, he is eager. You try to tell yourself it is because he may find you beautiful as well, but you know the truth and the truth makes it...Empress save your soul, the truth makes it so fucking hot. He couldn't refuse you if he wanted to. You don't see any fear or reproach or hatred in his eyes when you pull away from your first, hasty kiss. You kiss him again and again and again until he relaxes and puts his hands on you the way you want him to, the way you don't want to have to _order_ him to.

He doesn't shake when he goes to undress you, nor does he hurt you when you give him the chance. It is not unheard of for trolls of his caliber to kill their masters and escape when they are in such compromising situations, but you have faith he will not.

He is even better than you'd dreamed. Not quite made for you, but just close enough to be divine. His skin is soft and bruises easily and his horns are smooth and kissable. His kisses are wet but not sloppy and his hands know what they are doing. You fuck him until you are spent, and then you fuck him again. Your material sac is completely empty before you are done with him, and before you get on your knees and take his bulge in your mouth, you tell him that for many sweeps you had fashioned yourself celibate. He asks if he should be flattered, or he starts to. He gets half the sentence out before you decide you are sick of him talking.

The first time, you'd stood there, pressed against his body against the wall, and you'd stared at the stone and you'd smiled and admitted silently that you had always wondered what this would have felt like.

And you had. You'd seen several highbloods so completely taken by slaves that they allowed themselves to be depraved and toppled down. You'd always thought they were pitiful creatures. You'd wondered what kind of put-upon fool would get on his knees and pleasure a slave, and now you had to wonder what kind of fool _you_ were. You had mocked those who were so blinded by their own bulges that they would give up everything just for a slave.

You would not give up everything for Gamzee, but hell if you weren't going to risk it. The danger of being caught like this with him was intoxicating, and you got in the habit of taking him in more and more public places just in case you got caught. You began to drop hints, never when he was around, just to see who was smart enough to pick up on them. Captor almost did, but none of the others did. They had been blinded by the pious statue you'd built of yourself.

Oh.

You should build a statue. And then fuck Gamzee behind it. That should be a thing that happens.

You move his quarters closer to yours to allow for shorter traveling times and decide that oppression, while still a deplorable and completely offensive practice you will dedicate yourself to eradicating soon, has its perks.


	10. Day Ten: I'm broken

10\. Compared To Me

 You don't even remember what it is he said. Some self-deprecating comment about his mental state, or something about his addiction to cigarettes or something equally flippant. You know it's not this one comment that pisses you off; it's how he does this shit _all the fucking time_. Your boyfriend's got a tongue made for kissing and a body made for fucking, but he's got a mouth made to punch. You listen to the bullshit what comes out of his mouth and it's a flood of _poor me_ and _feel sorry for me_ and _this is why my life sucks_. You know a little self-pity sometimes is good for the soul, but you ain't understanding why he thinks he can do that shit _all the fucking time_ _**around you**_.

You get that he's gone through some shit. He was nineteen when his folks bit it, but his bro was already sixteen and a man half-grown. Yeah he got an issues with smokes but it ain't bad. He goes through a pack a fucking month. He ain't never had to raise a fucking baby what ain't got a working tongue or had to deal with the fucking voices like Hell itself ain't never seen or looked at himself in the mirror and known that blitzed-out motherfucker what gets his look on back in the reflection. He doesn't even fucking know what broken _is_.

You were plenty pissed off when the shit came out his mouth, but you never meant to hit him. And once you got it in your head to hit him, you meant that to end that shit. Any smart motherfucker would've up and run from you then, not stayed to listen to what fucked up shit came spewing out your maw. Sure as fuck wouldn't have nodded, hand on his face like to shield what part you already done up and hit, and promised he ain't never gonna say shit like around you again. When you start blubbering, he does the strangest motherfucking shit, like you ain't just gone and turned into his worst nightmare made flesh. You know he got the fear in him of being stuck with a motherfucker who ain't got the sense to keep his hands off the one who give him light, but when you go and do just that he just hugs you.

You ain't got the need in to get to apologizing yet, 'cause horrified as you is at the actions of your own body, you ain't over the anger in you at the hurtful things he done spit at you like he didn't mean it. But you cling to him something fierce and put your lips on him way of apologizing and he just holds you all gentle-like and says he forgives you when you tell him you ain't meaning to do that shit, even though you ain't asking forgiveness like that.

You put good shit on his face where your fist made a purple mess of him, and you kiss just above it so he knows you love him still with all of you, even the fucked-up bits. He kisses you all over, like his kisses is the healing touch you need and he can heal you just like that. You give him apology hours later, in the manner of the way you moan his name. You gotta let him top, cause you can't look him in the way, not now. All your eyes can see is the bruise what ain't faded none you gave him and the love what ain't faded none since you gave it to him. While he's falling asleep in your arms in that way the meds don't make in no way easy for you, you think maybe you're wrong and he is pretty broken after all.


End file.
